The Man in the White Room
by dangerousdame
Summary: A brief crossover with Red DragonSilence of the Lambs.  What happens when deadly minds compete.  Slash if you want to take it that way, although it wasn't my intention.


Jonathan Crane walked down the hallway of Arkham Asylum, wishing for the millionth time that the walls were soundproof. It was hard to hear oneself think amidst the noise made by the madmen. He had long ago become deaf to the actual words of the obscenities, pleadings, and threats, but the sound was still irritating. At least his intended study for the day seemed to be the quiet type.

Crane pushed open the door and let himself into the small white room. The psychopath sitting behind the bars looked up for a moment, then went back to his reading. He was a dark man, late-middle age, with eyes that were a reddish brown color. Neither he nor Crane spoke for a full minute. Then the patient finally put his book down.

"The man in the cell next door has the most irritatingly maniacal laugh I've ever been forced to endure. You don't suppose there's any way of getting him to be a bit less noisy?"

"No, I don't suppose so", he answered evenly.

"A shame."

Hannibal Lecter, the madman, glanced over Crane, although it was impossible to tell if it was with approval or disgust. He finally stopped when he reached the face, a slight smile curling his lips.

"I hope you don't mind my saying so, but you have very interesting eyes."

"Thank you. To buisiness, then. Do you know why you are here?"

Lecter didn't answer, but asked a question of his own.

"Aren't you a bit young to be the head doctor?"

"Does my age bother you?"

"Not particularly. What does bother me is your presumption. Thinking that you can examine me like an insect under glass. I am a psychiatrist, don't forget. I know all of your games before the playing has even begun. I am sure I could tell you more about yourself than you could about me."

Crane adjusted his glasses and looked at Lecter, unblinking. His hands neatly folded on the table, his voice no more than its normal volume, he decided to find out.

"Such as what?"

Lecter frowned to himself before speaking.

"You're hardly more than a boy, Jonathan. I hope you will permit me to call you by your first name. You take a childish delight from your pseudo-powerful position, but that is to be expected. The mere fact that you are a man of science virtually guarantees your having been teased as a small child. This was made even worse by the fact that you were physically weak, a flaw you now do your best to hide.

What was it those schoolboys called you? A nerd, a coward, a girl. And even worse names, such as the popular slang for homosexuals. Despite the fact that it wasn't true, you let it get to you. Why did you do that, Jonathan? Did your parents call you those names, too?"

Crane didn't respond. Something inside of him burned, but outwardly he showed no sign of emotion.

"Continue."

"Very well. You still carry all of that sexual anxiety in you. Despite having grown into a handsome and successful man, you still feel desperate to prove your potency. This you do by grinding into the dirt the fragile neurotics in your care. It wouldn't surprise me if, while you send some lovely young thing into a tearful breakdown, something inside you is satisfied. Something like lust."

It wasn't the words that got to Crane. Some of them were true- his school days had been rather unpleasant- and some of them false- there were hardly any female patients in Arkham, and most of the males were hardly what might be called appealing. But what bothered Crane was the way the words were spoken, and more than that, the way Lecter looked at him as he said them. That leer.

_Alright, then. Two can play this game as well as one. And you're going to lose._

"These are all fascinating observations. Would you mind if I made some about you?"

Lecter shook his head, a smile forming on his lips.

"Now Jonathan, you know that isn't fair. You've gotten to see my files, whereas my guesses about you were purely observational."

"You're afraid of being powerless."

Lecter looked up at him, surprised. Crane continued.

"One word kept on coming up in your description of me: weak. To you, that is the greatest possible insult. You try, with your affected British accent- which, by the way, isn't fooling anyone- to sound intelligent, and to disguise the fact that you are little more than a glorified savage. You're a doctor- would you agree with my assessment?"

I have him, he thought to himself. The way he's paused, at a loss for words. I've got him.

"Well Jonathan, it's hardly a flattering description. You do seem to be rather interested in my fears. What about my wishes? Do you long to hear me say that I desire the touch of your skin? Praise from anyone, even a murderer, would do you some good."

Crane snapped the file closed.

"I can see this is getting us nowhere. Goodbye, Dr. Lecter."

"Going so soon? I'm hurt. I'll have to work on my conversational skills."

Crane did not reply as he walked out the door.

And for the first night in many years, both men felt fear.


End file.
